


A king's gift, a king's care

by myrish_lace



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Jon Snow is King in the North
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-02
Updated: 2017-06-02
Packaged: 2018-11-08 02:39:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11072352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/myrish_lace/pseuds/myrish_lace
Summary: Sansa is struggling with the after-effects of her time as a hostage in King's Landing, and Ramsay's abuse. Jon, the new King in the North,  wants to help her, but isn't quite sure how to reach out. Two moments - one where Jon gives Sansa a gift, and the next when Jon brushes her hair - help Sansa regain some of her trust and confidence.





	1. A gift for a girl who no longer exists

**Author's Note:**

> Breaking out two longer connected drabbles I wrote that are extensions of each other. For those who've read my drabbles collection, you'll have seen these already. :) Hope you enjoy!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon gives Sansa a small gift, and it's a painful, sweet reminder of happier times.

It shouldn’t matter as much to her as it does, this small silver hairnet of blue and white stones that Jon’s just given her, stammering all the while.

Sansa remembers when gifts and jewels filled her daydreams. She’d while away the hours spinning stories about the favors she’d graciously bestow on golden knights, and the gowns and jewels suitors would shower her with as they tried to woo her.

Sansa’s gowns are simple now, made by her own hand as she sits in the Lord’s Chambers Jon prepared for her. She sews designs that are easy to take on and off. Lords and ladies alike compliment her on the elegant, sweeping lines. She smiles, and keeps the true reason to herself - she can’t bear the thought of anyone touching her, even if only to help her dress.

She turns away offers of ladies’ maids, and wears her hair plainly, spilling over her shoulders. Some of her advisers think it’s a strategic move, a “banner for all the North to see,” a subtle reminder of her lady mother. Sansa’s not blind to the symbolism, and uses it to her advantage. But she also can’t bear to have someone stand behind her, to brush and braid her hair. The feeling is too intimate, and too vulnerable. So she pins pieces away from her face, and lets the rest fall free.

Jon devotes too much time to her comfort, now that he’s King in the North. He asks after whether she’s eating, and makes sure her chambers are well-stocked with logs. When she confronts him about it, he rubs the back of his head and mumbles a few words about remembering how cold she was at the Wall.

She’s frustrated he recalls her moment of weakness. She’s also touched.

Now, as she pours the hairnet through her fingers, she starts to smile. She thinks how she could make a gown match, with embroidery that would bring out the shine of the silver metal. But she’s afraid of opening up that part of herself again. She’s wary of giving voice to the girl inside her who still loves pretty things, and might, just might, believe in songs.

Jon sees her face fall. He sways towards her, then stops. “Do you…is it the wrong size?”

Sansa can’t hold back a small laugh. Jon’s stance eases. “No, Jon, I can adjust the hairstyle, a hairnet can’t be too small.”

Jon looks as relieved as he does when a favorable report comes in about their growing support from the Northern houses. “Good, that’s good. I just thought it would…look nice, with your hair.”

At King’s Landing, men had recited poetry for Sansa. She’d even received a few fanciful, beautifully written love notes delivered by secret messengers. All were politically motivated, calculated to test her loyalty, to Joffrey, or to Tyrion. She’d learned to steel herself to sweet gestures. So she’s not sure why she’s fighting back tears at Jon’s simple words.

“Sansa, are you all right?” Sansa glances at Jon. His brow is furrowed, and he’s nervous again. She wishes he’d leave, and let her vent her unruly emotions in peace. She wishes he’d open his arms, so she could walk into them, because she thinks his touch might be one she could welcome.

Sansa nods, composing herself. “Yes. Thank you Jon. I’ll…” She has a response ready from her prior life - a promise to wear the gift soon. But she can’t give Jon that promise. As talented as she is, without a ladies’ maid, she can’t craft a style on her own that would allow her to place the net in her hair. So there will be no gown with silver thread, and no moment where she gazes into her mirror, admiring how the stones bring out the color of her eyes. “I’ll keep it safe. It’s beautiful.”

Jon shifts his weight. He seems about to say something more, but instead awkwardly takes his leave. Sansa carefully stows the gift away in a drawer. She takes it out from time to time, allowing herself to hold the stones up to the light, before tucking it away again. The girl who loves this gift can have a few moments of Sansa’s time, but no more. There’s a war on, after all, and Winter is here.


	2. I don't know about kings, but I'll help you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa is having a hard time caring for her hair with no help. But it's hard for her to let others touch her. Jon comes to her rescue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a bit of a remix of the first chapter of one of my WIPs, "Let's journey to a place we've never been." Hope you enjoy!

Sansa tried to be scrupulous about appearances. They mattered. She knew that better than most. The Lannisters had wrapped her in lions, complete with teeth and claws, the day she wed Tyrion. She’d worn her own dress emblazoned with a wolf when staring Ramsay down, and she’d drawn strength from it.

So she was angry she’d let her hair get away from her. The past week hadn’t given any of them a moment’s rest. A raven had come to Winterfell heralding the arrival of Daenerys Targaryen. Sansa heard whispers of the queen’s beauty, even this far north. She’d thought herself past vanity. Apparently she’d been mistaken. She was vain enough to want her hair to shine like burnished copper, as it had when her mother brushed it, so she could greet the queen with confidence. But late nights and early mornings had forced her to braid her hair quickly, to keep it out of the way of the maps spread out hastily in Winterfell’s great hall.

Now it was tangled, hopelessly, in the back. She was standing, scowling at her reflection. _I don’t have time for this_.

She heard a knock at the door. “Sansa, it’s Jon. May I come in?” She almost turned him away. But the news he carried could be important, and she couldn’t shut herself in her room forever.

“Yes, come in please, Jon.” He closed the door, cutting off the colder air from the hallway. Sansa cursed as the brush got stuck once again. Jon seemed shocked. She’d probably never cursed in front of him before.

“Sansa, what’s wrong?”

Sansa was too tired to lie. She’d have to tell him. She sighed, setting the brush down. “Jon, promise, please, not to laugh.”

Jon looked about as far away from laughing as possible, but then again, he usually looked solemn. “I won’t, Sansa.”

“It’s-“ Sansa gestured fruitlessly to the back of her head. “My hair, Jon, it’s tangled, and I can’t brush through it. And no, I can’t ask a lady’s maid for help, I can’t ask anyone for help, because I can’t let them-“

Jon strode across the room, and his arms were around her before she could get out the rest of the warning. Sansa stiffened, and Jon loosened his grip, ready to release her. He felt...good, warm and solid, and Sansa focused on her breathing. _He won’t hurt me. He won’t_. She gathered up her courage and leaned into him. Jon held her a little tighter, and waited. She sensed he was ready to stand there all night, even all week.

“Sansa, you don’t have to explain.” Jon’s voice was low, and soft, and she could feel his words reverberate in his chest. She held on to his shirt with one hand. “I just – if there’s anything I can do, to help you, please tell me.”

Sansa focused on the feel of Jon’s stubble against her cheek, and the scent of leather that clung to him. Maybe she could make a jest, to get out the mess she’d found herself in. “Do kings brush hair?”

Jon tilted his ear towards her. “Hm?” She couldn’t blame him. She’d spoken directly into the fabric of his shirt. She pulled back, and tried for lightness. “Kings. Do they brush hair?”

She waited for a hint of a smile. Instead Jon held her gaze, his eyes dark and serious. “I don’t know about kings, Sansa, but I’d try, if you wanted.”

Sansa didn’t trust herself to speak just then, so she reached for the silver brush on her table. Her hand shook slightly. She held it out to him. Jon took the handle from her. He still hadn’t let her go, and Sansa found she didn’t want him to. She felt safe, and wished she could keep him here, in her chambers. That thought led to other half-suppressed feelings she knew she had to ignore, so she turned, and sat.

Jon was at a loss, but determined. He cleared his throat. "Is it better if I stand?"

"It's easier if you sit in a chair behind me."

"I saw your mother and you like that, once." Jon pulled up a chair behind her. He was quiet, which was a blessing. Sansa expected the large knots in her hair were intimidating. She was about to give Jon some advice, to tell him he might have to start with his fingers, when he made quick work of the first tangles. She looked at him in the mirror, surprised. “Have you done this before, Jon?”

Jon shrugged. "I brushed horses at the Wall," he said, and then shut his eyes. "I can't believe I just said that out loud." Sansa was speechless. The chagrin on Jon’s face was too much, and Sansa couldn't help a small laugh at his expense.

She covered her mouth, chastened. “I’m sorry, Jon, that was unkind.”

“No, it’s all right. It’s...I’m glad to hear you laugh.” The corner of Jon’s mouth turned up, and he kept working. "Your hair's so fine, anyway," he said gently, "the knots come out easily." Sansa knew he wasn’t telling the whole truth. The tangled mess was challenging, but Jon was patient. Soon Sansa closed her eyes, tilting her head back. It was such a luxury, to have someone do this for her. It was such a luxury not to flinch at someone's touch. She heard his chair scrape against the floor to get a bit closer. She felt his fingertips at her temple, lightly, at the beginning of each stroke through her hair.

"Is this too hard?"

"No, Jon, you're gentler than mother was." She yawned, and dimly realized he'd not told her where he needed to be next. 

***

When she woke the room was dim. The sun had almost set. She could feel Jon's presence behind her. "How long was I asleep?"

"Not that long."

He was a terrible liar. "Jon, the sun's gone down, it's been at least a few hours. Were you here, the whole time?"

"Aye I didn't - you looked so peaceful, I didn't want to wake you."

"Thank you."

"You're welcome, Sansa."

"How did you get out that one huge knot in the back?" She couldn't believe she'd slept through that.

"I just...concentrated," he said, and something in his tone made her shiver. "Do you need me to braid it? You'd have to show me, it always looks so intricate, around your head, small braids and large ones." His forehead creased. A man ready to lead an army to war, flummoxed at the thought of dressing a woman's hair. She could only imagine what he would have made of the elaborate styles she'd worn back when she thought Cersei Lannister was the height of grace and beauty.

Sansa did want his help, and soon. She wanted to wear his gift, the hairnet he'd given her. But this wasn't the time. "No, you'd better go, I'm sure Davos and Tormund are wondering where you are by now." He looked at her in confusion and she sighed, inwardly. _Think, Jon, you spent hours in your sister's bedroom, unplanned, people see, they talk_. He got up with a strange reluctance and paused at the door.

"Good night, Sansa."

"Good night, Jon." Her hair flowed like silk as pulled it over one shoulder. She looked down at the silver brush on the table. There was barely a strand caught in it. She wouldn't have been half so careful herself. Sansa braided her hair back to keep it from tangling again while she slept and threw two extra logs on for light and warmth. She slept well, and long, that night, dreaming of copper and fire and Jon’s dark eyes.


End file.
